Sweet as Honey
by The Black Sun's Daughter
Summary: Ever since the whole debacle with the goblet and the mortaeus flower, Merlin's taken it upon himself to taste the prince's food. Technically speaking, it isn't his job, but it falls under the realm of protecting the royal prat, so he's doing it anyways.


Arthur—Melisande, clouded leopard  
Merlin—Mysaria, banded mongoose  
Gaius—Jocosa, crested gecko

* * *

"I think I ought to try another nip of that oatcake. That honey looks very suspicious to me," Mysaria insists as she licks her sticky claws clean.

"Hush, you little glutton." Merlin carefully balances the breakfast tray on one arm as he rearranges the food just so it looks as though they haven't been nibbling at it. "Those are Arthur's favourite, and you know it."

Technically speaking, it isn't his job to tests the prince's food for poisoning, but ever since the whole mortaeus incident, Merlin's a little paranoid. He can't help it. The stupid blond git has a most uncanny ability to attract trouble simply by breathing normally on a good day, and even if he doesn't go actively searching for it, it definitely comes looking for him. And Merlin has plenty of faith in Gaius to cure him, since his magic helps slow the effect of most poisons anyways.

"Still think it looks suspicious to me," Mysaria says wistfully.

Merlin tweaks her nose. "Hush, I'll go get another for you later." Taking the tray in both hands, he pushes the door of Arthur's chambers open.

For once, His Pratliness is already up and about, though he's still in his bedclothes and his hair is an utter mess. "Here before lunch, Merlin, I'm impressed," he drawls, stretching his arms over his head. Melisande stretches her entire body out in that _way_ that cats have, yawning wide enough to display the eyeteeth that were almost as long as Merlin's little fingers.

He decides not to grace that with an answer since he's not even _that_ late for once, just sets the tray down on the table and starts looking for the comb. He's got to do something about that hair; Arthur looks like a demented rooster. He leans over to pull open one of the drawers, and the whole world seems to tilt with him. He staggers a step into the dresser, nausea crawling up his throat, his stomach knotting over on itself hard. Oh, damn it.

Forcing himself back upright, he turns to face Arthur, but he's certain that if he opens his mouth, he'll be sick on his boots. Instead, Mysaria races down his half-outstretched arm and flings herself onto the tabletop at the breakfast tray. She's just as dizzy as him now, so instead of simply pushing it aside, she crashes right into it, her momentum taking the whole thing over the edge of the table and to the floor with an enormous crash. The sound makes Merlin's head ring.

"What in the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" Arthur shouts, his voice coming from very far away.

Merlin tries to answer. Really, he does. But his magic has turned inwards on him now, trying to force out the poison however it can. So instead of answering, he doubles over, gripping the bedpost for support, and empties his stomach of its contents. He nearly falls over into the mess, but a strong hand closes hard around his arm, yanking him upright. He sees a flash of sun on golden hair and realises its Arthur. When had he gotten up?

"Merlin? Merlin, can you hear me?" Arthur demands, hands clasped hard around his shoulders, shaking him. The words are distant, fuzzy, as if coming through many layers of cotton.

He coughs and retches again, bile searing up his throat. Mysaria, where's Mysaria? A sharp pain stabs into his stomach, twisting hard, and he whimpers, arms wrapped tightly around his middle. Distantly, he hears Arthur's voice again, but now the cotton's gotten thicker, he can't make sense of what's being said, just a garbled string of noises that might be words. Dimly, he's aware of being lifted from his feet and set on the softness of the bed, and then the darkness creeping around his vision wins, sweeping up on him fast and strong.

His hands reach out blindly for Mysaria before the dark catches him and drags him under.

* * *

"Gaius, Arthur, we need Gaius!" Melisande barks at him.

Arthur looks away from Merlin's face, pale and sickly, and springs to his feet, running to the doors. He can hear the choked noises the young man's making behind him, and opens the door. "Guard!" he shouts, and the young soldier snaps to attention, his dæmon nearly falling over herself. "Fetch Gaius to my chambers at once, tell him Merlin's been poisoned."

"Yes, sire!" The guard turns and flees down the corridors, fear lending wings to his heels.

When he turns back around, Melisande is gently lifting the limp form of Mysaria from the scattered remains of breakfast, teeth clamped around the scruff of her neck. She's covered in crumbs, trembling all over. Melisande carries her over to the bed, bounding up to perch on the end of the bed near Merlin's booted feet, lying her gently on the coverlet.

Arthur skirts around the mess on the floor and comes to Merlin's side, touching his neck. His pulse is entirely too fast and fluttering, and his skin is cool, clammy. "Oh, dammit, Merlin, what have you done to yourself now?" he mutters, watching the rapid, shallow rise and fall of the young man's narrow chest.

"It's the food, it must have been poisoned," Melisande says, gently taking Mysaria in her teeth and gently placing her near Merlin's hands, nudging her close without breaking the taboo. Brushing against his dæmon's fur, Merlin curls one hand over Mysaria's back.

"Why is that damn boy eating my food in the first place?" He looks up as Gaius comes into his chamber, carrying his bag and frowning, face lined deeply with worry. "Gaius, he's been poisoned. Something in the food," he says, moving aside for the old physician.

"What were his symptoms, sire?"

"I don't know, he didn't say anything. He threw up and collapsed."

Gaius huffs and sets his bag down on the bed; his dæmon scuttles back and forth across his shoulder, almost blending into his robes. Arthur watches, gathering Melisande against him and running a hand over her thick fur, as Gaius feels around Merlin's neck and wrists, listening to his heart, his breathing. "Bring me the food, sire, perhaps I can see what was used," he orders, brandishing one hand.

Arthur rights the tray and scrapes up the scattered food, uncertain what Merlin ate to make him so sick, all the while cursing the bloody fool under his breath. _When he's better, I'm going to beat him into the ground,_ he thinks, bringing the tray to Gaius.

The physician's tiny dæmon crawls down his voluminous sleeve and starts picking her way across the tray, investigating the food. "Can you smell anything off?" Arthur asks, glancing at Melisande.

She leans forward and sniffs at the food, ears pinned back. "Not really. Wait." She sniffs at the crumbled oatcakes again. "This smells a bit off, but…"

"It's the honey," Gaius's dæmon says, blinking her enormous eyes.

"What is it?" the physician asks without looking away from Merlin, peering beneath his eyelids, touching his throat gently.

"Adder's root."

"Adder's root," Arthur repeats, clenching his hand around Melisande's fur.

Gaius hums, delving in his bag and speaking almost absentmindedly, like Arthur is a boy at lessons again. "It's the berries that are truly poisonous. They cause swelling of the throat and mouth, severe pains, and upset stomach. They have a very acidic flavour, however, which means its an unusual choice for poisoning. Whoever's responsible mixed it into the honey to mask the taste."

"But you can cure it, right?" he asks; Melisande's sharp claws dig into his arm, but he keeps his arm around her.

"Yes. It's lucky he was sick. The poison will have had less time to take effect on him." Gaius sorts through his bag, taking out different packets and vials, murmuring to himself as he mixes them into an empty goblet.

His dæmon shakes her small head. "Not again, boy," she murmurs quietly.

But not quietly enough for Melisande's keen ears. "Again? What do you mean, _again?_ How many times has this happened?" she demands.

Arthur levels his gaze on Gaius, seeing the old man hesitate, sees his eyelids flicker slightly, and he tightens his arms around Melisande, not even feeling it when her claws dig into his arm hard, drawing pinpricks of blood. "Don't lie to me," he warns.

Gaius sighs quietly. "Three times, sire. None as bad as this."

Melisande hisses furiously, her ears lying flat against her skull, and he turns his gaze to Merlin's pale, clammy face. _I'm glad Gaius can cure you, Merlin, because I'm going to kill you,_ he thinks, then asks aloud, "Why?"

Gaius tucks a hand beneath Merlin's neck and gently lifts his head, bringing the concoction to the young man's mouth, tipping it in carefully. "Merlin is very protective of you, sire. And he has a streak of…rash nobility that wills out at the most unpredictable times."

"That's one way of putting it," Arthur mutters darkly.

"Ever since what happened with the mortaeus flower, Merlin's committed himself to tasting your food and drink," the old physician goes on, still not quite meeting the prince's eyes; his little dæmon hides herself in a fold of his robes. "Thrice he's come to me ill."

"Why didn't he tell me? Why didn't you?" Arthur demands.

"Merlin asked me not to. He insisted that he would take care of it."

He groans and rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. "I'm going to kill him. I really am. You stupid, self-sacrificing _idiot,"_ he groans, and Melisande huffs a quiet growl, narrowing her eyes at the quiet form of Mysaria. "Will he be alright?"

"Yes, sire." Gaius sets the empty goblet down on the table. "The swelling will go down, and he'll wake up within a few hours."

"Good." Arthur drops his hands to his lap and stares at his manservant. "You're dismissed, Gaius. I'll handle it from here."

The physician nods and gathers up his things, heading towards the door.

"And Gaius?" Arthur adds, running a hand down Melisande's back.

"Sire?"

"The next time something like this happens, you will tell me directly."

"Yes, sire."

* * *

Merlin wakes up slowly, feeling sore and aching all over the place, especially in his stomach, where it feels like his insides have been twisted out of shape. He groans softly, wrapping an arm around his middle. Lying on his chest, Mysaria snuffles and sneezes, blinking hazily. He lifts a hand to run his fingertips down her back, smiling; she nibbles his finger.

"If you ever do something like this again, ferret, I'll make mincemeat of you," says Melisande's cool, dignified voice, and they both turn their heads to look at the small cat, sitting on the bed a comfortable distance from Merlin. Her wide tawny eyes are fixed on Mysaria, unblinking, tail coiled neatly around her paws.

Belatedly, Merlin realises that there's room for her on his bed because it's not _his_ bed. It's Arthur's. And if Melisande is here, then—

"And I'm going to finish what I started and take your head off with a mace," Arthur adds, and Merlin turns his head. The prince is sitting in his chair, one ankle propped up on the opposite knee, turning a dagger over in his hands. His face is unreadable, that quiet, blank 'prince' look that he usually only wears in council meetings or when dealing with visiting dignitaries. "Three times, Merlin."

He hides a little flinch. Gaius must have told him. Damn. Mysaria crawls beneath his jacket to get away from Melisande's fixed stare.

"Someone else," Arthur says at last, and Merlin looks at him, puzzled. "I hate that it's necessary at all for someone to do this, and I know that nobody is expendable, but you…never again. Understood?"

He opens his mouth to argue, to protest that he's _fine,_ he can do this, but the glare Arthur throws him is full of cold blue fire, warning him that the next words out of his mouth had best be 'yes, sire' if he knows what's good for him. "Yes, sire," he murmurs, cupping one hand around Mysaria as he pushes himself upright. She crawls up his chest to curl around the nape of his neck.

"Good. Now Gaius says you need rest, so rest."

Merlin blinks. Rest. How sadistic is it that if he wants to get to his bed to rest, he must first be unrestful? Stairs. To hell with stairs. "Yes, sire." He starts to swing his legs out of the bed and stops at a guttural hiss from Melisande and a sharp sound from Arthur, almost in perfect unison. "What?"

"I said, rest, damn it. Lay down," Arthur barks, jabbing the dagger in his direction for emphasis.

Merlin just stares at him a moment, uncomprehending, and with an eyeroll and a huff of annoyance, Arthur stands up, rounds the desk, and shoves Merlin's chest, pushing him back onto the bed. He stands there with arms folded for good measure until Merlin slides back up onto the bed and lays back against the pillows.

"Thank you, sire," he murmurs, unsure of what else to say.

Arthur huffs again, sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking Melisande's ears. It's a nervous gesture on his part; he must've truly been worried. "Yes, well. You might be the most useless servant in Camelot, but you can get all the scratches out of my armour," he replies.

Mysaria snorts loudly, tucked back beneath Merlin's jacket. She knows very well that's hardly the only thing they're good for, even if he doesn't.

"Get some sleep, ferret," Melisande orders.

"Get stuffed, moggy."

Both dæmons chortle quietly as their humans shake their heads in dismay, refusing to meet the other's eye.


End file.
